


Cleansing a Weapon

by Thuri



Category: The Avengers (2012)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-19
Updated: 2012-05-19
Packaged: 2017-11-05 14:52:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,853
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/407706
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Thuri/pseuds/Thuri
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There were definite perks to being a superhero on the same team as Iron Man, who just happened to also be Tony Stark. Erratic, yes, but brilliant, rich, often generous and--above all else--obtainer of truly <i>epic</i> booze.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Cleansing a Weapon

**Author's Note:**

  * For [i_know_its_0ver](https://archiveofourown.org/users/i_know_its_0ver/gifts).



> This was supposed to be silly crackfic that got a little more serious than intended. Enjoy!

There were definite perks to being a superhero.  
  
No.  
  
Scratch that.    
  
There were definite perks to being a superhero on the same team as _ Iron Man _ , who just happened to also be Tony Stark. Erratic, yes, but brilliant, rich, often generous and--above all else--obtainer of truly  _ epic _ booze.  
  
Yes, Tony decided, looking around the room at his pickled teammates, they were lucky to have him. Very lucky. How else could they be erasing their memories of the slime beast debacle in such elegant and refined style?  
  
Thor belched loudly, utterly ruining the moment, and Tony sighed. He and the demigod were about the only two left standing at this point. Steve had long since given up on the lot of them, muttering something about disgusting drunkards that Tony was fairly certain was an accidental alliteration and  _ completely _ certain was actually directed toward him.  
  
Steve was good like that. Steve didn’t  _ get _ drunk.  
  
But then he couldn’t, poor boy, and Tony was relatively certain he was just jealous of the obviously amazing time the rest of them were having.  
  
Natasha, for example, had claimed a bottle of so-top-shelf-it-was-second-floor vodka and was currently curled up around it, muttering something to Banner about unarmed kill moves and how they didn’t work as well when everything was covered in slime. It was very technical, but that was all right, because Bruce was snoring. Going all green always wore him out...he deserved the rest.  
  
With Thor still drinking but fully engrossed in a movie even Tony deemed too terrible to try and watch, that left just him and Barton.  
  
Reminded of the small man, Tony looked about, trying to find where he’d stashed himself this time. It hadn’t taken very long for him to realize it wasn’t just the archer’s vision that’d given him his name. The man perched. In inconspicuous spots he could then jump out of, scaring the coffee mug right out of your hand.   
  
It didn’t appear to be in any of them now, though, and Tony frowned to himself, heading out to the balcony as Natasha turned her attention to Thor.  
  
As he’d half expected, it was there he found Barton, sitting on Tony’s landing pad, legs dangling over the edge. He had his back to Tony, a beer beside him, and something in his lap. Something he appeared to be  _ talking _ to.  
  
This was too good to pass up. It was possible, of course, that Barton had his phone on, that he had some girl--or guy, Tony wasn’t picky and God knew the archer was hot enough to attract either--on the phone and was chatting them up. But in case he  _didn’t_ , he really should come back in the house and help Tony figure out how to further torment Steve into cracking a smile against his will.  
  
So he strode along the curving pathway, making plenty of noise to alert Barton to his presence. He didn’t want him to jump and fall from the tower, but even more he didn’t want to accidentally alert any of the  _ immensely _ scary assassin skills both Barton and Natasha never seemed to run out of. He was almost sorry he’d been so busy repairing the helicarrier that he hadn’t gotten to see them fight each other in earnest. They were scary enough when they sparred against each other.  
  
But, though Barton had to have heard him, he didn’t make a sign of it. Tony paused near the center of the landing pad, deciding he didn’t really want to try the edge without the suit. Way too big a chance of falling and splatting the pavement. And that would be all too embarrassing. “Nice night for it.”  
  
“For what?” Barton asked, continuing what he’d been doing. Which was, apparently, stroking his bow, Tony now realized. He had it across his lap and appeared to be polishing it. Which was possibly the first time he’d been able to say something like that and not have it be a euphemism.  
  
Though he had to wonder if it  _ should _ be, the look in Barton’s eyes. Kind of faraway and mellow, not the usual sharp squint.  
  
“For whatever it is you’re doing out here alone with a weapon, a beer and some...is that oil?” Tony raised an eyebrow. “Are you actually  _lubing_ your bow?”  
  
“Nah, already did that,” Barton replied absently, still running a soft cloth over the metal surface of his weapon. “Just cleaning, now...slime’s not good for the string.”  
  
Tony stared, his brain breaking just slightly. Either Barton was fucking with him, or he and Steve had switched minds. No other possibility for Barton being that obtuse. “Ohhkay,” he said, shaking his head. “Doesn’t explain why you’re out here when the party’s inside. C’mon, birdboy. Come live a little.”  
  
Barton glanced behind them at that, and snorted. “I think Tasha’s living enough for both of us.”  
  
Tony glanced back to see Tasha enthusiastically--and thanks to the vodka not very successfully--attempting to take Thor down with some kind of ridiculous hold. Or at least he assumed that was why she had her legs wrapped around his neck while Thor held the rest of her out at arm’s length.  
  
And laughed.  
  
Tony shook his head, hard, certain it’d be awhile before he got that particular image out of his mind. “She should warn for it, too,” he agreed, sliding over to sit next to Barton, though he kept his legs firmly on the platform, not dangling over the edge. “Seriously. What gives? I know why the Capsicle bugged out of ‘the team’s getting smashed because we’re tired and slappy happy night’ early, but what about you? What’s your excuse? And you can’t use super soldier serum. It’s been taken.”  
  
“Damn, and that was my first choice,” Barton replied with a half grin, carefully collapsing the bow and turning his attention to the string, taking a small ball of beeswax tucked in leather and working it back and forth. “What about you?”  
  
“ _I_ am delightfully tipsy,” Tony replied, raising his glass in illustration, finding himself oddly fascinated with Barton’s reticence. What on earth--or off it, face it, big universe and everything in it seemed to keep wanting to snack on Earthlings--could be going on? “ _I’ve_ been a charming host all evening.  _I_ am no longer rated for flying, driving, and/or saving the universe until alcohol has metabolized into simple sugars.  _I_ am  _not_ the one we’re talking about.”  
  
“You're not?” Barton’s eyes went wide in mock-shock. “Are you feeling all right?”  
  
Tony grinned. “Ha, yes, I’m full of myself, I’m my favorite topic, it’s all about me, true. But  _ you _ are sitting on my landing platform bringing down my party. So spill. C’mon. Out with it, or I’ll be forced to get drunker. And possibly tell Thor where I hide the karaoke machine.”  
  
“You’re a hard man, Stark,” Barton said, carefully coiling his bowstring. He fiddled with it--and the bow--for a few more moments, before leaning back and looking up at the sky. The lights of the city blocked most the stars, but there were still a few up there. “This gig, being a superhero, going out and fighting in the open, getting thanked after...it’s fucking strange.”  
  
Tony blinked. Not what he’d expected, but...well. He hadn’t expected anything, so that was all right. “If you’re sore at getting the credit, I could take your share...”  
  
Barton snorted. “Yeah, you probably could. Too many years working under the radar, I guess. The kind of shit we get up to...it’s big, it’s public, it’s messy. Not what I trained for. None of this’s been what I trained for, not since...” He shook his head. “Still a lot to wrap my head around. Even when we’re not fighting lime jello.”  
  
“Think you’d want to go back?” Tony asked, more softly, forcing himself to sober up a bit. “To being a shadow?”  
  
“Sometimes,” Barton admitted immediately. “A shot in the dark, a whisper in the wind...” He snorted and laughed, softly. “Very poetic and mysterious. Gets you a shitload of tail, even when they all think you’re lying.”  
  
“And now?”  
  
The archer shrugged. “Now they’re looking up to me like I did something good, something big, something other than following orders. Once I had my head clear enough to follow the right ones again.”  
  
_Ah_ . Tony nodded, glancing over at him again. So that’s what this was about. “You ever heard my glorious origin story?” he asked, knocking back the rest of his drink.  
  
“A time or two,” Barton said, glancing at him again. “I’ve seen parts of your file.”  
  
“Then you know how I got this,” Tony said, tapping the arc reactor. “What I found out.”  
  
“Your company's weapons ending up in the wrong place is not the same as putting an arrow through a friend’s eye.”  
  
“You’re right,” Tony replied, nodding. “Completely, absolutely.” He caught Barton’s eye, fixing him with his gaze. “You only killed a couple dozen people. Not thousands.”  
  
Barton held his gaze for a moment, then closed his eyes, looking away. “You didn’t know...”  
  
“And neither did you,” Tony cut him off, impatient to hear the excuse on another’s lips. “I could’ve, if I’d looked harder, but Loki had you  _ out of your fucking head . _ I’m not saying brag about it, man. But I  _am_ saying get over it. Work it out next slime monster we come up against. Find a pretty girl or a hot guy and weep into their shoulder while they fuck you. Come to one of us and rage about it. Don’t sit out here and drink cheap beer and get maudlin and shit. It’s not going to do any fucking good and it is  _ really _ bringing me down.”  
  
Barton’s lips quirked up, slightly, and he nodded. “Can’t have that, can we?” he asked, a hint of genuine amusement in his voice. Not much, but Tony would take what he could get.  
  
“Not on my watch,” Tony agreed, pushing himself up. “C’mon, stop polishing your bow, or fletching your arrows, or lubing your string or whatever ridiculously euphemistic thing it is you archers get up to on your own. Come help Natasha try to take down Thor, or go tease Steve into coming back upstairs and watching us all get drunker. You know he wants to.”  
  
Barton stared at his offered hand for a moment, before clasping it and letting Tony pull him up. “Okay. Uh...thanks, Stark.”  
  
“Don’t mention it,” Tony replied, squeezing his fingers quickly before letting them go. “C’mon. I promise I’ll get Jarvis to sound the alarm if your eyes go misty, okay?”  
  
“I’d appreciate that,” Barton agreed with a huff of laughter.  
  
But it was there, he was moving inside, and Tony could provide him with something other than that weak horse piss to drink. Do it enough times and he’d be thinking about living, not the dead. Do it enough times after that, and maybe Tony’d finally have a partner in crime.  
  
Oh yeah. The Avengers were  _very_ lucky they had him. Very lucky indeed.


End file.
